I’m proud to be an immigrant.
I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to live in several countries, in war and peace, as an immigrant and long-time visa holder.
I’m grateful to be an immigrant living in the United States of America.
I’m especially mindful of this because of a 4 a.m. encounter yesterday with a cabbie.
After a half-hour of listening to right wing radio rants at high volume, I joked from the back seat, “Why are all these guys so mad?”
“It’s all going to hell in a hand basket,” he said.
It was too early to ask him to be more specific.
He added quickly, “Can’t happen soon enough, if you ask me.”
There was a long pause. We had arrived, thankfully, at the terminal.
“Born here?” I asked, knowing the answer.
Oh, yes, he was born here.
I suspect he’s never lived anywhere else; perhaps that’s why his world appears so dark.
What do I know?
I’m only an optimistic immigrant, witness to an extraordinary time in American history.